


Son of Stark

by DeathjunkE



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Family, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Gen, Gen Fic, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 15:48:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathjunkE/pseuds/DeathjunkE
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm no Stark." And that was true. Despite looking like a double of Lord Stark his name was Jon Snow. </p><p>(5 times Ned actually forgot he's not Jon's father, and 1 time he was painfully aware.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Age 5 Months Old

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Athena who whipped this fic into shape and polished it up nice. :)
> 
> This fic was written for the prompt on the ASoFaI Kink Meme:  
> 5 times Ned actually forgot he's not Jon's father, and 1 time he was painfully aware.
> 
> I have only read the GRRM books, I've never seem the show so please forgive any discrepancies.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where in Catelyn is bitter.

Part 1: Age 5 Months Old

The nursery room attached to their chambers was very large. Against the far wall was the massive weirwood crib that could easily sleep two children of five comfortably. Along the east wall there was a feather bed and a wardrobe for Wylla, Jon's wet nurse. On the opposite wall there was two chests of draws, one for each child and a large ornate over flowing toy chest.

There was room, for the boy in his arms —lots of room. So why, when he had come in, was Jon swaddled in a basket in Wylla's bed?

"The Lady Catelyn, said that crib is to be used only for your heir and not your by blows." The venom Wylla held back from her tongue was seen clearly in her eyes.

Eddard couldn’t help but to share her outrage. Catelyn wasn't his first choice for a wife, and he wasn't her first choice for a husband but they liked each other well enough. That was probably the reason why he hadn’t expected for the woman to be so spiteful. It was not as if he had cast Robb aside, or expected the woman to feed Jon at her breast alongside Robb. All he wanted was the boys to share the nursery. Catelyn didn’t have to have anything to do with Jon if she chose not to; Wylla was there to take care of all the boys needs.

But on some level he supposed he expected it. Ned had heard stories of baseborn children being smothered in their sleep by angry wives. Even though he knew Catelyn was not an evil woman, Ned toted Jon with him to all of his meetings and daily tasks, Wylla the wet nurse never more than a few feet behind in case the child was hungry.

"I will take care of this Wylla." He said looking at the slumbering baby in his arms. The woman nodded and went back to mending one of her gowns.

That night as Catelyn came in from having laid Robb down to sleep in the nursery she looked curiously at Ned who was propped up against the pillows arranging a few of the extra pillows into a square between them to his left. 

"What are you doing, Eddard?"

"I don’t want either of us to roll on Jon during the night. The pillows will be buffers." He said matter-of-factly as he settled the dark haired baby down and covered him with a small fur.

"Surely you jape..." 

"That crib as you so kindly reminded Wylla, is meant for my Heir not my by blows. I won’t suffer my children far from me so until I can have another crib made, he will sleep here." 

"I will not sleep in a bed with your bastard!" She spat, bristling like a cat.

"Then I fear, dear wife that you will have to fetch Vayon and tell him to ready one of the guest chambers for you." Ned's grey gaze caught and held her own; he would not be moved on the issue.

"As you wish," she said stiffly, pulling on a dressing gown over her nightgown and going back into the nursery to retrieve her son.

"No— Cat, leave Robb where he is. I already told you, I'll not have my children far from me." 

Catelyn stormed out of the room slamming the heavy door behind her so loud and abruptly that both boys were shocked awake and started to cry. 

"Wylla, would you bring Robb to me." Eddard called over Jon's cries as he cradled the boy to his chest. Wylla brought Robb to him, the boy was red faced and shrieking. 

As Eddard held the boys close to his chest they began to quiet and look at each other before eventually reaching out and touching one another with chubby clumsy hands. They garbed at one another and eventually when Eddard had laid his boys down on the featherbed they rolled and giggled at one another. 

It was plain to see that they loved each other well. An in truth it was hard to believe that they weren’t twins. They were of a similar size and temperament. The only thing that separated them was their looks; Robb with Tully coloring, and Jon with his dark Stark features. 

Jon was of an age with Robb. The two boys were quite literally a day apart in age. They got along well. Robb was a jovial little thing, round and cubby and all smiles. Jon was curious, wanting to see, touch and taste everything, he gurgled and squealed when he was spoken to, and loved to be held and hugged. 

Both babies were happy, both were hale and healthy. 

And in the end that was all he really could hope for in his sons.


	2. Age 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where in Ned enjoys a blood orange.

Part 2: Age 7

Little hands were tapping lightly at his shoulder, one of his children no doubt. Ned cracked open one gray eye, and registered that it was still dark, the sun had not even begun it's accent into the sky. 

That ruled out Robb, not a damn thing could pry that boy from his bed at such an obscene hour. 

"Papa… Papa…"

Jon then. He was the only one of the children that called him Papa; Catelyn insisted that their children call him Father, like proper young Lords and Ladies.

Eddard rolled onto his side, and looked at his child with sleepy eyes. "Yes, Jon?"

"Happy name-day!" The boy whispered as he held out a bright orange ball.

It wasn't a ball, Eddard could tell once he had it in his hand. The weight and texture, and size… It was a Blood Orange from Dorne. A delicacy this far north, something Eddard loved but could never condone the expense of.

"I could only geth one…" Jon whispered, the loss of his two front teeth causing him to lisp. 

Eddard looked from the fruit to the child before him, curly hair rumpled and sticking up every which way, wrapped in a white bear pelt that had been on his bed and little bare feet. 

"Thank you, Jon. How did you know I love Blood Oranges?" He whispered back slipping from under the covers and lifting Jon onto his hip. 

They made their way to the solar of the lord's suite where the large glass windows would let them see the moon. Eddard settled the boy in his lap, wrapping one arm around the child's waist and pressed his nose into the downy soft riot of curls that was Jon's hair. 

In that quiet moment, while Jon's small hands helped his tear away the pith exposing the red flesh of the fruit Eddard realized how much Jon's hands looked like his own. They both had long slender fingers, oval shaped nails and sword calluses. 

Eddard looked forward at the glass window and was startled by the reflection he saw. They really did look so much alike and it wasn't hard to see that once Jon was a man grown he would easily be mistaken for Eddard's double. 

"Here, Papa." Ned opened his mouth to receive the juicy chunk of fruit from his son's fingers and smiled, though he was anxious to see the man his son would be, he was more than happy to indulge in the presence of the boy he was.


	3. Age 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where in Jon doesn't want to be left behind.

Part 3: Age 8

Catelyn has never been an inherently cruel person. She was a good woman who, like everyone else, had flaws. Her flaw was her inability to treat Jon kindly, seeing him as a symbol of betrayal, shame or some other personal slight against her. Catelyn would have nothing to do with the boy and would often be harsh with him in her speech and manner.

Ned tried to be understanding and keep Jon out of her way and at his side more often than not. As a result Jon had attended almost every grievance hearing, meeting, accounting inventory and trial ever since before he had been weaned. 

The child learned to walk by holding onto the leg of Ned's Breeches and cloaks, learned to count by counting bales of hay, bolts of cloth and what ever else was requested of him during the monthly inventory. Jon learned his letters and history on Ned's knee as he watched his father and the other Lords of the realm haggle, negotiate, and write up contracts, treaties and propositions. By the time Jon and Robb were six and ready to start their lessons with the Maester Jon could already read a decent amount and could do basic sums well enough.

Yes, Catelyn had complained once, but that was settled quickly. "You spend all your time with your bastard-son—"

"You wished for me to send Wylla back to Dorne and you yourself will not abide his presence in the nursery with you and Robb in the mornings so I will keep him."

"Old Nan will watch him, she's offered several times."

"Old Nan is exactly that, —old. She watches all of the children in the afternoons after they've had their lessons. Besides a few hours a day with Jon can only do the boy good. Unlike the rest of my children he has only one parent; he does not have a mother, Catelyn. Jon will never know a mother's love— would you really deprive him of his father's?"

Catelyn said nothing after that, but she always had a sour look about her when she would sit beside Eddard in the great hall during grievances. Robb seated on her lap or at her feet, and Jon on Eddard's.

It was Catelyn's attitude toward Jon that worried him most these days. The Iron Islands were rebelling and it had fallen to Winterfell to rein them in. Eddard would have to leave for battle once more. There was a chance he wouldn't come back and then what of his family?

Robb was to start shadowing his father on Winterfell business on his next name-day and start learning what it took to be a lord. The girls had no matches waiting for them. Arrangements for the fostering of Bran had not been made yet, he was only a few weeks old. And who would look after Jon? 

Sweet Jon who ruffled his sister's hair and didn't mind her tagging along. Jon, who had a vicious intellect and more vicious tongue —yes, he was most often courteous, but on several occasions Eddard had to step in and correct him. Jon, who would always try to hide his illnesses and hurts, only ever wanting Eddard to see him as anything other than strong. Jon who was just a boy

Usually when Eddard went on trips beyond the borders of Winterfell he had Jon bundled up and sat upon a horse or in a litter so they could travel to wherever business called. However this wasn’t the usual talks with banner men or visits to the tribes, this was war. And Eddrd Stark was not about to bring a child to the battlefields. 

Ned's thoughts went in circles around his head troubling his sleep. 

When it was time to lead the banner men from Winterfell to the battle Ned could hardly tear himself away from his children. Robb was doing his best not to cry and stayed hidden behind his mother's skirts in protest of his father leaving. Sansa and Arya, too small to understand the gravity of the situation giggled and kissed him when he scooped them up into his arms. Bran hadn't been born but three weeks ago and wouldn’t remember his father and so Ned held him for a few minutes and kissed his forehead gently. 

Ned said his goodbyes to Jon privately.

Jon had latched onto him, wrapping his arms tightly around his father's waist and tipped his head back to look into the eyes that were the same as his own. "Papa, why can't I go? You always take me with you…"

"The battlefield is no place for a child."

"I'll stay at the camp then!"

"No, Jon. You will stay here at Winterfell, the same as your brothers and sisters."

"I don’t want you to go…" That was when the tears came. Eddard lifted Jon on to his hip and started to sway. Jon's sobs were piteous, loud and made his whole body tremble. His tiny, long fingered hands scrabbled and clung to Eddard's jerkin, refusing to be moved. "Don't leave me!"

"Oh, Jon." He murmured into the thick dark curls of the crying child in his arms, "I'll be back soon. You, Robb and I will go visit the northron tribes, and eat all those great dishes that they make." 

Still Jon had not disentangled himself. Eddard gave the boy another squeeze, a few more kisses and slowly lowered him to the ground —or at least tried to, the stubborn child wrapped his legs around Eddard's waist and clung just as hard as he could.

"If you are diligent in your studies while I am away, I will bring you a sword from King's landing upon my return."

"I don’t want a stupid sword!" Jon muttered into the crook of Eddard's neck. "What I want is to stay with you. Papa, please."

Eddard stayed silent and ran his fingers through Jon's thick black locks, he couldn't speak for if he did he would say yes.


	4. Age 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where in Arya escapes from deportment lessons.

Part 4: Age 10

Arya never could sit still. 

As a baby she and Sansa couldn’t share a crib because Arya would move too much in her sleep and awaken her sister. Eddard had to have the iron crib that he had had made for Jon brought out of storage.

It was an impressive crib. Mikken had outdone himself. The bars of the crib were actually images. Swirls of black cast iron that were meant to be snow, the figures of racing direwolves and tall spindly trees. The four posts at each corner of the crib were tall spires with weirwood orbs posted on top, four moons for the wolves to chase. 

It was a gorgeous crib. Catelyn had been angry when she had seen that the crib that had been commissioned for Jon was just as elaborate as the heirloom weirwood crib that had once belonged to Robb. Now she was happy that it had been made as the other crib's equal— no one could say she favored one daughter over the other.

But the days where Arya slept in a crib were long gone. Arya was five years old, feisty and could keep up with even her eldest of siblings. Where Sansa liked Dancing, Arya liked Swordplay, Sansa loved needle point and Arya loved swimming, Sansa was a little lady and Arya was a little wildling.

It made Ned's heart swell to see that his daughter was so strong and independent — but it made him nervous too. Girls like Arya didn't make good matches. Girls like Arya were taken far from home after their wedding days, and their husbands tried to beat them into submission. Girls like Arya were treated cruelly by ladies, lords and small-folk; shunned because they weren't what they were expected to be. Girls like Arya wouldn't be accepted by the faith; Septas had to be proper ladies to instruct young girls in the ways of feminity and the Silent Sisters… Arya would never be silenced. 

Eddard worried constantly about his youngest girl and often went to checked on her progress in classes with Septa Mordane. However on this day it was only the Septa and Sansa in the girls' study pouring over a prayer book.

"Good afternoon Septa, Sansa." 

Sansa's head snapped up and she looked up at her father with wide blue eyes. "Father!"

He bent down and kissed her cheek smiling when she giggled at the feel of his beard, "Mayhaps you know where your sister is, my lovely Sansa?"

Sansa smiled prettily and nodded, "She's out in the Godswood. Septa Mordane said we would learn the prayers from the seven pointed star and Arya said she would never keep the seven and was going to the Godswood."

Eddard nodded and slipped out of the room. He'd come from the Godswood and he hadn’t seen his daughter. It didn’t take long for Ned to come across Arya in the old training field looking nothing like the little lady Catelyn tried to make her into every morning. Her mint green dress and white stote shawl had been abandoned for an old pair of too large breeches, an oversized gray tunic and a heavy leather jerkin.

She sat in the dirt in front of Jon who was patiently and gently working out the clips, pins and combs from her hair. As he let down each new curl and plait Arya grew more and more lax, leaning into Jon in a boneless way.

"You’re lucky you’re a boy, Jon. I hate being a girl!” She complained, "You can’t ride properly in a dress. Septa Mordane is stupid, all the other girls want to do is sew and dance and talk about love songs— all these clips and bows make my head hurt and I hate having my hair combed!

And no one ever wants to play unless it's come into my castle, or knights and princesses, and they never let me be a knight! And the girls are mean too, Sansa and her friends call me horseface!"

Jon nodded acceptingly in a way that made Eddard think he wasn't really listening, as he ran his fingers through Arya's long hair and then guided it into a tight and surprisingly neat braid. "I'm done."

Arya stood up, dusted herself off and grabbed a hold of one of the wooden swords that was on the ground. "I've been practicing, Jon, just like you showed me. I can hold it just right, now!"

And indeed she could, her grip was firm and yet loose, her fingers were curled in just the right position and her stance —back straight, knees bent, feet a shoulder's width apart— was perfect as well.

"Good, that looks about right." Jon said and he snatched up his sword and slowly went through the starting warm up moves, slowly getting faster and faster until he and Arya were parrying and blocking at a rapid pace.

Eddard stayed in the shadows of the castle, watching his children go back and forth. The whole thing brought to mind his own sister, Lyanna. Would things have turned out differently had he taught her to use a sword? Would Rhaegar have been able to steal her away so easily had she known what tender part to strike so that he wouldn't be able to keep hold of her? Would Jon have…

He shook himself free of his ponderings; there was nothing for it now.

He watched as Arya and Jon moved from the basic motions, beginner's moves, and into a mock battle. Jon was holding back and letting Arya set the pace, as grueling as it was they kept it up under the summer sun. When they were done, energy spent and covered in sweat they sat on the ground panting and grinning like fools. 

"Well done, little sister." Jon praised as he mussed Arya's hair before he trotted off to get the bucket of water on the other side of the field. They both drank a few handfuls of water before they stripped down to their smallclothes and washed off the dust and sweat as best they could.

Jon was washed and back in his clothes with in a few minutes. But Arya was fighting with the green dress and it's many poufy petticoats. 

"Jon!" With Jon's help Arya was once again presentable and tightly laced into her dress and looking like a lady once more. 

"I can't fix your hair back you know."

"I know, I don’t want you to anyway."

"Oh and don’t eat the lemon cakes tonight, alright?"

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not going to let Sansa and her loudmouth friends get away with being bullies."

Arya smiled and all but flew into Jon's arms, "You're the best big brother ever you know that. Better than Robb! And don’t worry I won’t tell Sansa." She said as she pressed a kiss to his cheek and ran off to her lessons.


	5. Age 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where in Lysa Tully Arryn makes an ass of herself.

**Part 5** : Age 12

There was no one Eddard disliked more than Tywin Lannister. (The enmity between them was known publicly —Eddard Stark could not abide the murder of children no matter who's offspring they were), but Lysa Aryn, formerly Tully, was climbing to a close second. 

"It's not proper that the boy call you that," she insisted, "quite frankly he doesn’t belong here in Winterfell. You should have left the boy in Dorne, it would have been kinder."

"It would be quite kind of you to tend to giving your husband a healthy son instead of worrying about mine." Yes, it had been a cruel thing to say but when Lysa's face burned red and her mouth became a thin pinched line he felt a vindictive satisfaction. 

"The youngest of your own children do not even call you 'Papa'," She bit out.

"No, my eldest does. But alas, he'll grow out of it soon enough. I best enjoy it while I can." 

Lysa huffed spun on her heel and stormed away, Eddard didn't really care.

 

Jon sitting apart from the family wasn’t something that he allowed to happen despite Catelyn's protest. There were always eleven chairs at the head table, one for each of his children, Cat, himself, Maester Luwin, Septa Mordane and one for the member of the staff chosen to dine with them that night. Tonight Jon, Lysa and little Robert Aryn, and Brynden the Blackfish would be dining with them and so four more chairs were added. 

Lysa was watching the children intently, "Uncle?"

"Yes, my Lady."

"You've never married, that I know. But have you ever sired a child?"

Brynden frowned, the question catching him off guard, "No, but then the lovers I take are either barren or on a regiment of moontea."  
"Other men could learn from your example," She looked hard at Eddard, and then Jon, who had realized he was the topic of the discussion and pulled his attention away from the conversation he was having with Robb to look the woman in the eye. "Bastards are unfortunate. They bring shame to the men who sired them and the women who must deal with them. If a woman found herself unmarried and pregnant it is only right that she drink moon tea. It's not every woman who is kind enough to allow for the spawn of her betrayal to parade before her face everyday, in fact I've heard tales of women who smother the babes in their sleep— a kindness to be sure. But as I said, Bastards are unfortunate."

The stillness in the hall was absolute. All of the servants, workers and staff— every person in the hall had heard Lysa's tirade and were waiting for the fallout. It was known that Lord Eddard would not tolerate any mistreatment, slander or complaints about his baseborn son. Not that there were any, Jon was a good boy— yes, there was the occasional mischief but it was always silly things any twelve year old boy did. Anytime an actual complaint had to be made to Lord Eddard about his children, or his ward, it was about Robb, Arya or Theon.

Just as Eddard opened his mouth to tell Lysa to keep her views and opinions to herself, Arya's clear high voice rung through the dining hall; "Your face is unfortunate!"

"Arya!" Catelyn hissed.

Sansa hid her red face in her hands, Bran chuckled, Robb smirked and Brynden Tully and Theon went for broke and laughed.

"Don't scold me, scold her!" Arya pointed to her aunt with the meat knife she had been holding, "She's rude!"

"Arya, you need to calm down" Jon gently took his sister's outstretched hand and took the knife from her, setting it back on to her plate. "Remember what Septa said; 'There is a place and time for every discussion, those who can't adhere to that simple civility should not be amongst decent people, and should be pitied."

Septa Mordane looked grudgingly pleased yet mortified. At least one of the children had absorbed her teachings even if it was the boy who would hide Arya when it was time for her deportment lessons using her words to publicly, and not at all subtly rebuke a rude guest.

A discrete smirk settled across Eddard's lips, and he nodded approvingly. "Listen to your brother, Arya. Conduct yourself as proper lady should."

Lysa's face a so red it was nearly purple, she scowled and pulled her little son into her lap. "I'm feeling ill, I will retire to—"

"You were well enough to shame yourself, and so you are well enough to deal with the embarrassment." Jon Aryn wiped his mouth and looked sharply at his wife from the corner of his eye, "Mayhaps I should send a raven to the faith requesting a septa be sent to the Veil. I think you would profit well from individual tutelage." 

Eddard waved one of the servants to clear away the plates and bring both Jons a double portion of dessert.


	6. Age 6 (almost 7)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where in the deserter is Jon Snow.

**Part 6** : Age 6 (almost 7)

Eddard had to deal with the deserter. 

A man who couldn't keep his vows was a man who didn't need a head on his shoulders. There was no honor, no control and no pride. This was something he truly believed, even if he didn’t say it. 

A man who left the Night's Watch was a man who scorned and spurned his second chance. The Wall needed every man it could get; winter was coming. 

The man before him was dressed in black breeches and a gray tunic, he had not made it far from the gift before being subdued and brought to Winterfell. His face was thin and his features were sharp almost like a relief carving.

"You've deserted the watch, you've said your vows and you left."

"Aye."

"Then we both know where this will lead." Eddard pursed his lips, and summoned a serving girl with a wave of his hand. He gently passed her Jon, the boy had fallen asleep on his lap some time ago. "A block Jory, and Ice."

It was with a heavy heart that Eddard made his way outside. He hated to take a life but this was the way it must be. If he handed the sentence down it was his responsibility to carry it out. There would never be a headsman at Winterfell, he would raise Robb right and see to it that he knew the value and responsibility of life.

This was one of those rare times that he was glad of the fact that Jon was baseborne. This would never be his responsibility and so Eddard would not need to make him watch the beheadings. Ned would preserve Jon's innocence for as long as he could. The boy would never have an easy life, but he would have a good childhood— Ned would see to it.

"Any last words?"

"No."

"Alright then. May the Gods be merciful to you." Eddard raised his sword, hating the way the sun gleamed so beautifully on the metal, And brought it down hard and with more than enough momentum to sever a head cleanly.

"Jon Snow! Stop! Come back here, boy!" Came the frantic and harried shout of the maidservant. The sharp clack of her heeled boots against the stone floors seemed so loud as it rang throughout the courtyard.

Everything felt as if it was moving slower as Eddard looked up and saw Jon. The boy's eyes were blown open and his little lips parted. A line if red dots —splattered blood from the beheading— lay across the bridge of his nose like a mockery of freckles.

The servant appeared ad snatched Jon up on to her hip before bowing low, "I'm sorry, M'lord. He slipped my hand to look for you. I'm sorry." Without further ado she whisked Jon away.

 

That evening Eddard sat in his chair in the solar of the nursery suites. Each child had their own room now but the rooms all led to this large solar. It was furnished lavishly with soft rugs, plush couches and chairs, a large gated hearth and trunks full of toys and trinkets.

Usually when Eddard sat in the children's solar Sansa climbed into his lap and chattered away about anything she could, her high babyish voice making him smile. After Sansa tired of talking she would toddle off and Eddard would slide to the floor to sit with Arya and baby Bran and mediate as they played with their soft toys and little games.

After he had spent some time with the youngest of his brood he would pretend not to notice Robb trying to sneak up on him for some impromptu tickle wrestling. Eventually when Robb was breathless and sore with laughter he'd call Jon in to help him defeat their father. 

Usually Jon would laugh and jump into the game with wholehearted abandon, but on this night Jon pursed his lips and stormed away into his room.

"Jon?" Robb questioned, started by his brother's sudden ill temper.

"Robb, watch over your brothers and sisters for me while I see what is bothering Jon." 

"Yes, Father." Robb chirruped and turned to busy himself with Sansa.

Eddard walked into Jon's room and closed the door behind him. He looked around the room and felt nostalgic. This had been his room when he was a child. Most of the furniture was antique, the desk, bureau, vanity and chair were all carved weirwood and iron. The bed was the only new thing in the room. Eddard had it commissioned Jory to make it in the same design and fashion as Jon's crib had been. Once the bed had been assembled on Eddard took great pleasuring in covering it with warm and rare furs, much to Catelyn's irrational irritation (If she did not want Jon using the antiques used for Stark children of the past then she would have to come to terms with his new and equally luxurious things he was given). Underfoot were thick plush rugs in gray and blue. 

Jon sat at the vanity naked as his name-day, a bowl of sudsy water and a washrag before him. 

The boy was preparing himself for bed, most likely in an attempt to escape Eddard and any attempts at conversation by sleeping. Ned grimaced and approached anyway. 

In one quick move that made Jon yelp in surprise Eddard had lifted the boy, slipped into the chair the boy had previously occupied and settled the child on his lap. Eddard pulled the sleeves of his tunic up to his elbows and took the soapy cloth from the basin squeezing it out before he used it to scrub at Jon's back.

Jon wriggled and slipped off of Ned's lap and tried to dart for his bed. Ned, quick as a snake, grabbed Jon's wrist and pulled the child back to him. "Stop that nonsense," he murmured and continued to clean the struggling little boy.

"Let go of me!" Jon snarled with all the ferocity a six year old could muster and kicked his father in the shin. 

Ned pulled Jon back to him and have him a hearty smack on the rump. It happened so fast that Eddard expected it was a reflex. "I will not put up with that kind of behavior, Jon. You know that."

The boy looked at him with stormy gray eyes, glassy from holding tears back. "Let me go."

Ignoring the protest, Eddard pulled Jon onto his lap and started cleaning him once more pinning him still with an arm around his waist. "If there is something bothering you, tell me what it is. I would like to help you Jon, but I need to know what's wrong first." Jon, stayed quiet and Eddard huffed— the boy was just as stubborn as he was. "It’s a father's duty to help his son with—" 

"You're not my father." Jon snarled and dug his nails into Eddard forearm.

Eddard's heart stilled in his chest and he couldn’t breathe.  
Who had found out? How had they found out? Did Robert know? Was Jon in danger now? Where could he hide the boy now? There wasn't enough time to arrange for nurses and passage to Essos. The Mormonts were good friends and so were the Karstarks. They would take Jon and keep him safe until Eddard could make arrangements. Jon would fight him tooth and nail, he hated to be left behind. Robb and Arya would throw fits left and right wanting to know where Jon was, why they would not be allowed to speak of him.

"My father doesn't kill people!" 

Oh, oh. Okay— these were just the words of an angry child. This was manageable, it was painful to hear, yes. But far better than the alternative.

"Jon, my boy." Ned pressed his nose to Jon's soft curls and took a deep breath taking in the scent of freshly bathed child and the milky smell that lingered for a few years even after the child had been weaned. "Sweetling, you've always called me Papa."

Jon was not amused by this line of reasoning and his face clearly showed it. 

"Jon, sometimes I am forced to do unsavory things because I am a Lord. I must judge men who break laws, break their vows. That man was a man of the Night's watch."

"Like uncle Benjen?"

"Yes, only he deserted them. That man had once been a criminal and he was given a second chance. He was allowed to go to the Wall to reclaim him honor. He took vows, made promises to protect the realm and be a brother of the watch until the day he died. These vows are made to the Gods and to the kingdom and upheld by all of it's people.

He no longer wanted to be a brother so he ran away and so—"

"He had to die," Jon whispered, understanding but not accepting. "Why did you have to do it?"

"If a man gives a sentence, it is his duty to carry it out himself." Eddard explained, "If you can decree that a man must die you have the power of his life in your hands. One must have a proper respect for life, for death and for his fellow man. When you condemn a man to death you must look in his eyes, listen to his last words, smell his fear, feel the steel just as he will and taste his death. It is not easy. It is not pleasant—but it is right."

Jon gave up fighting and leaned against his father pressing his face against the man's warmth and cried for all he was worth. 

"Oh my child," Eddard murmured as he stood with Jon on his hip and went to the bureau to retrieve a nightshirt. As Jon sobbed piteously Eddard threaded his arms through the sleeves of the thick woolen night shirt and gently buttoned it up.

"He was hungry," Jon managed between sobs, "he was so hungry and I told him if he waited for me I would bring him some bread and cheese… He told me I was a good friend… His name was Jon Snow too."

Suddenly there was a knot in Eddard's stomach. He understood now, it wasn't only the man's death that made Jon hurt this way.


	7. Age 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where in Jon loves his father even more.

**Part 7:** Age 14

Jon Snow knew just what was said about him behind his back.

The washer women chattered about how he and Robb were getting to an age where marriage prospects would be discussed. And would Lord Eddard deign to marry his bastard to a lord's daughter or a merchant's daughter or send him off somewhere to become a knight or some such other nonsense.

Jory praised his sword work and used him to shame the older boys into practicing.

Septa Mordane despaired of him, she grumbled and fussed about how he hid Arya from lessons and would let her have the breeches that he had out grown.

The Northern lords always spoke well of him. Asking after his progress with a sword and his health. They commented about how he had grown from the stripling babe that was always wrapped in furs and sat in front of his father whenever the Lord Stark left Winterfell.

The farmers who cared for the glass garden complained that he would steal Blood Oranges from the only three oranges trees the gardens had. (John _always_ shared the spoils of his midnight forays with his father, and thus was never scolded).

The maids praised his Stark features, good manners and wondered if any of their friends managed to lure him into bed yet. They believed (correctly) that if he got a child on one of them he would wed that woman. 

Theon japed that Jon had been gelded after birth because he showed no interest in visiting the brothels when they were allowed into town.

Lady Catelyn's companions —all obstreperous southron women whispered behind their hands that it was only a matter of time before Jon slipped out of his room in the nursery wing and slit the throats of his siblings in the hopes that he would inherit Winterfell. They whispered that his mother had jumped off a tower in Dorne once she realized she would have to raise a northern bastard.

Lady Catelyn, he never heard the words she said but she made it clear that he was not one of lord Eddard's true born children and should therefore not be entitled to sit at the head table when company called, that he should not call the man who sired him Father (He'd long out grown the childish epithet Papa). That she thought Jon's clothing, toys, gifts and mount were all too extravagant for a bastard. It was clear to see that she believed he did not belong.

When they came across the dead direwolf and her pups Jon felt his stomach twist. There were five pups; three male, two female. The pups were meant for the Stark children, coincidences of that magnitude did not occur— clearly it was the Gods at work.

Even the Gods made it clear that Jon did not belong.

"You want no pup for yourself, Jon?" In that moment Jon couldn't have loved his father anymore. Even if Lady Catelyn and the Gods would cast him out, his father would keep him.

"I'm no Stark." And that was true. Despite looking like a double of Lord Stark his name was Jon Snow. 

As they prepared to leave the clearing Jon heard the sound. He dismounted and walked past the direwolf's corpse to retrieve the final pup. It was small, just as white as the snow it had been found in. The pup's eyes were open, blood red and alert. The pup gave a strained whine and hunched down in his arms, tired, cold, trembling and whining pitifully. 

Jon smiled slightly and held the little beast closer to himself. So maybe he wasn't a Stark, but he was still the son of one after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are worshiped and treated with lewd passion. <3  
> Love me! O.O

**Author's Note:**

> So, funny stuff; I actually don't care for 5 Times fics, neither reading them nor writing them. Also, I prefer the Idea of AsharaDayne/NedStark more than Jon being Lyanna and Rhegar's son so this was something all around different for me.
> 
> I Just saw this prompt and... well, I'm a total whore For Ned + Jon interaction and couldn't help myself! lol.


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